


Magic's Blade

by Phoenix_Rose



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic, BAMF Merlin, Canon Era, M/M, Torture, eventual merthur - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-03-07 18:07:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13440321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_Rose/pseuds/Phoenix_Rose
Summary: Twenty years ago,  the death of Ygraine Pendragon sent Uther Pendragon into a rage that could only be calmed with the elimination - the Purge - of magic.  Twenty years ago, the sorceress Nimueh saw the direction which the king’s mind had turned and gathered her troops.Nineteen years ago, a sorcerer was born of the Dragonlord Balinor and his love, Hunith.  Though Balinor had long since fled persecution, Hunith taught her son to control his great power to the best of her ability.  She protected him from suspicion and did her utmost to protect his innocent mind from fear.Fourteen years ago, Hunith was killed by bounty hunters who attacked Ealdor.  Her son, however, was rescued by Nimueh.  She took the boy to use against Camelot.  After his first time in combat, the boy abandoned the name his mother gave him, fearing that she would have been disgusted in his actions, and took the one he was prophesied to have - Emrys.Now, Arthur Pendragon has been sent to find Emrys, Magic’s Blade.  His doubts about the righteousness of Uther’s war must come to a head.Now, at last, the Once and Future King will stand beside Emrys.  So long as they can survive.





	1. Prologue

 

* * *

 

 

The Great Dragon was dead.

His Dragonlord Balinor wept burning tears for hours after, sobbing as he ran for his life, the king hot on his trail as he headed towards Essetir, towards Hunith, seeking the sanctuary of Cenred’s magic-friendly kingdom.

The physician Gaius watched him sadly as he fled, one more in the long line of friends driven from Camelot by a king’s all-consuming grief.  Nimueh, Balinor, even Alice…  He shook his head and turned away.  Helping him run to Hunith in Ealdor was the best he could do for him.  Some might think him cowardly for renouncing sorcery and nodding along with the king’s hatred as his kin burned around him, but this was the only way he could save people.  His magic was weak, far too weak to fight back and, yes, he was afraid.  With a woeful sigh, he walked to the king’s council.

 

Uther Pendragon sat upon his gilded throne, feeling the absence of its twin at his side keenly, and looked upon his counsellors.  A deep crease between his brow had aged him twenty years in a week whilst a permanent frown thinned his lips and whitened them until they looked like parchment, and his fingers clenched and unclenched without his knowledge or consent.  His advisors knew better than to bait his rage by mentioning it.  Even Gaius, his oldest and most trusted friend, didn’t dare suggest that he stop and rest.

The cries of a child floated down the echoing halls and permeated the room.  Uther clenched his jaw, pained by the loud wails of his son, who he'd left in the care of the wet nurse a few rooms away.  With a sweep of his hand, he commanded that the great oak doors be shut, separating him from his heir and the reminders of his grief.

“Magic,” he said, his voice quiet but certain, hiding a quiver behind passion, “is an abomination.  It is a disease that corrupts the heart of practitioners until they would betray their closest friends.”  Those in the room (the only men in Camelot who knew the new heir’s magical origin) bowed their heads at the mention of Nimueh, who had failed to warn their king of what his son would cost him, but Uther ignored them.  “As the Court Physician will no doubt tell you, the cure for disease often comes in the form of a purge, as the cure for magic does also.  I thank you, as my most loyal men, for supporting the pursuit of justice so readily.

“But, as with any malady, the sickness resists the cure.  I am sorry to report that rogue sorcerers, lead by the traitorous Nimueh, prepare to march for our lands.  We must send men out to meet them, to halt their advance.  Gentleman,” he looked each councillor solemnly in the eye, “send out the word.  Camelot is at war.”

 

Gaius bowed his head as he left to hide the tear slipping slowly down his barely youthful cheek.

The Great Dragon was dead, and Camelot at war.


	2. Chapter 1

One of the few constants in Arthur Pendragon’s life was The War.  The War, which his father had begun twenty long years ago when he tried to purge magic from Camelot and magic said “no.”  The War, which had cost Camelot more good men and women than the young prince could ever hope to count or bear to imagine.

The War which had, as its first tragedy, killed the Lord Galoris and sent his orphaned daughter Morgana, terrified and alone, into the arms of Camelot as the ward of the king.

The War which had snatched Morgana from them and left his father half mad broken.

( _The War didn’t make her leave,_ whispered the darkest, most traitorous corner of Arthur’s mind at night, _your father did.  He pushed her into his arms with his persecution of magic.  It was fear of her gifts and what he would do that sent her into the druids’ arms_.)

The War was one of the few things his father did that Arthur couldn’t even pretend to support.  In public, yes, he was the perfect soldier, dedicated to the cause in heart, body and soul.  In private, he had endured many shouting matches with the man who looked upon him and always wanted to see his wife.

 

“My lord?”

Arthur started out of his reverie to see Morris, his manservant, standing at the flap of his campaign tent.  He nodded to him, beckoning him forward to deliver his message.  Once upon a time, Arthur would probably have taken out his frustrations and his (carefully hidden) fears on the boy - he remembered an incident in his youth, when he had forced Morris to heave around a wooden target for him and his knights to throw various sharp objects at - but duty had since tempered the edges of his sharp temper; how could his men respect him if he was seen to bow to the same impulsive viciousness that the king swore the sorcerers were slave to?

“The king wishes to see you, sire,” Morris said, not-quite resisting the urge to peek just past Arthur’s face, over his shoulder where maps lay on the table.  Arthur nodded, leading the way out of his own tent to his father’s.

 

As he approached his father’s tent, Arthur resisted the urge to sigh.  Uther’s flamboyant nature had not been dulled by age or circumstance, and even in the midst of the camp battered by the bitter winter, his ostentatious tent shone out like the jewels in his crown.  Unlike Arthur’s, which was the same regulation tent that his knights used, the king’s tent was dyed Pendragon red and large enough for several men (a waste, considering it housed only Uther and his manservant) and contained ornately carved oak tables and chairs where the council of war could convene.  

Kept from the battles by his advisor’s sage counsel and the physician’s orders (Gaius, whose shadowed eyes carried the sorrows of a hundred men, who was rumoured to be the only sorcerer - former sorcerer - who had stood in the king’s presence without the date of his execution being announced, and the only surviving member of the original council that Uther had first announced his plans of war to), Uther settled his nerves and untouched lust for magical blood by pouring endlessly over plans and rumours and reports from spies that all sat on his large wooden table.

The king was staring at his papers as Arthur bowed and entered.  The prince swallowed nervously and set his jaw; the last time he had been summoned to this tent alone had been so Uther could give him a _special_ mission.  

The screams of the women and children in the druid settlements he had devastated haunted his dreams.

 

Uther looked up at his son, smiling briefly at him.  The hard years of battles and paranoia had not been kind to him, greying his hair and lining his stern face with marks of age and disapproval.  His old bones creaked when he moved too quickly or not enough and, though he didn’t admit it, the sword he had once wielded deftly enough to win Camelot from its usurper king grew heavier each time he held it in his slightly arthritic hands.  Smothering a spark of jealousy as he looked upon his youthful son, whose blond hair and bright blue eyes (from Ygraine) shone like a beacon, whilst his strong muscles employed his sword with ease as he defended their lands from militant sorcerers, Uther gave the message he had summoned his heir to receive.

“We have received reports, Arthur, of a weapon that can end this hellish war.”

The prince’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly before a carefully constructed blank mask slipped into place, and Uther could not read him.  For a moment, he mourned the fact that his son had been forced into the role of a soldier so young, lost his innocence so quickly.  And he grieved for the child that, with a pang of guilt, he realised he had failed to get to know and that he’d failed to realise when - quite without warning - he had grown up.  He shoved the thoughts aggressively from his mind; the time for an old man’s regrets was after the battles were won, not now.

“They call it Magic’s Blade,” Uther continued, “Emrys.  It is said that the king who holds Emrys by his side will unite the people of Albion and bring them peace.”

“All of Albion?”

Uther nodded.  “I want you to locate and retrieve Emrys.  It is currently under the protection of the sorcerers, no doubt they hope to keep it from us, but I have no doubt in your ability.”

 

Arthur frowned, “you called it _Magic’s_ Blade.  Surely the fact that it’s magical makes it hypocritical to wield it.”

“Do you question your king, Arthur?” Uther growled before checking his anger.  After all, Arthur was still young, still innocently unaware of the burdens of the crown.  “A weapon, Arthur, is a weapon.  It will bend to our will and its origins will be inconsequential.”

“Of course,” Arthur murmured, bowing his head.  “I will not fail you.”

 

And though his conscience told him that his father’s orders were hypocritical and wrong, he rode out to seek the sorcerers’ base.

 

*

 

Emrys repressed the shudder that ran down his spine with great difficulty as he continued to tidy away the parchments that lay on his pallet.

“My ladies,” he said quietly, knowing all too well whose eyes it was who chilled him to the bone with only a look.

Nimueh, a high priestess and the leader of their militant group.  It was she who had convinced the normally peaceful druids to join their side twenty years ago, she who organised their training, she who commanded their forces in battle.

Morgause, another priestess and Nimueh’s strong right hand.  Her skill with the blade was surpassed only by her skill in sorcery, and her love for seeing the blood of Camelot’s men spill onto the frozen ground was surpassed only by her love for her half-sister Morgana.

Morgana, of course, was the refugee from Camelot that the pair had taken on as their apprentice.  Five years ago she had run from the castle and it’s king (her guardian) in the dead of night, aided only by her sister, knowing her magic was close to discovery.  Her magic was strong although, as yet, largely untapped, but her uncontrolled skill as a seer was beyond comparison.

 

Emrys turned to greet them properly before he was reprimanded and blinked as he saw the boy Mordred at their side.  Mordred was a boy from the druid camp who had joined the cause not long after Morgana.  He was only a child - Emrys estimated that he had seen no more than eight summers - and clung to Morgana like a shadow.  So perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that he was there, but his silent presence still caught him off guard.

“What have you Seen?” he asked them.  He knew it wasn’t a social call; the high priestesses were above such things and, besides that, the relationship between them and Magic’s Blade was strained at the very best.  His hatred for the fact they forced him into battles through guilt and threats shone out of his eyes whenever they flashed gold over the battlefield.  He hated the fact that the deeds he had done at their command marked him as a weapon rather than a man.  But, most of all, he hated the fact that the violence had done was so far removed from the nature of the boy his mother had raised that he had abandoned his old name and taken the one the prophecies gave him.  They had stolen the goodness that his mother had claimed she saw in his soul, even as she lived in terror of his sorcery being discovered, and now the only thing he had left to remember her were the peasant’s garbs he continued to wear.

“The king has sent his son to seek you,” Morgana said, her lips curling in disgust as she mentioned the members of her old family.  Emrys felt a flash of pity for her - loathing as strong as that which she held in her heart was as deadly as hemlock.

“I see.  I suppose you’re here to tell me to leave?”  He shook his head as they confirmed his assumption.  As much as he abhorred living in the camp and fighting their wars, he knew from experience (Uther was not the only king who had heard the tales) that going into hiding and being alone with only his thoughts for company was far worse.

Besides, he knew he was safe.  The spirit of the Great Dragon Kilgharrah visited him often in his dreams - since his father Balinor was slain in battle, Emrys was the last Dragonlord - and had told him his destiny so often that he could recite it.  And his destiny was to stand at the side of the Once and Future King.  No one else would succeed in trying to claim him.

Let Pendragon come.  Emrys didn’t fear him, and perhaps it would finally bring the peace he craved.

 

*

 

It took half a day of full riding to reach the place where Arthur had to desert his mare.  She was too conspicuous, so she would remain in a nearby farmer’s stables until he was able to return for her.  He gave her an affectionate pat on her nose - who knew if he would return to see her again? - and went on his way.

He’d lost track of how long he’d been walking for, keeping to the lows in his leather hunting gear (chainmail would only attract attention), when he came to the mouth of a forest.  Instinctively, he knew he was on the right path, though there were no tracks to prove his theory, so he kept walking.

It could have been a minute or an hour before he was hopelessly lost, and that was when he appeared.  Arthur almost yelled out, startled by the boy’s sudden appearance.

He’d appeared in a whirl of magic and disturbed leaves.  Golden eyes were fading slowly to cornflower blue, looking at Arthur with a child’s curiosity.  The intensity almost made him blush, and he continued his own study of the boy before him.

He was clad in a thick cloak of the druidic style but, with a brief grimace, he shed it and placed it on the branch of a tree (“can’t stand the things,” he said cheerfully).  Underneath he was wearing the clothes of a peasant - a faded red shirt with a tattered blue neckerchief, scuffed boots that would no gain holes before too long, old trousers held up with a length of rope and a brown jacket worn enough that it was shiny at the elbows and slightly too short.  Arthur found himself wondering why he didn’t use magic to make some better clothes but brushed the thought away - he shouldn’t be suggesting the use of magic, even in the privacy of his own mind.  With a repressed grin, he noticed that some gold leaves from the tree sat like a crown in his dark hair.

The boy smiled ruefully and brushed them away, giving a small shrug that said  _what can you do?  It’s the wind’s fault, not mine_.  Arthur raised a doubtful eyebrow and the boy mock-glared, the corners of his plump lips twitching slightly upwards.

 

“Who are you?” the boy asked suddenly, sounding as if he knew the answer as he broke the silence between them.

“Arthur Pendragon, Crown Prince of Camelot,” he said, his voice pumped full of arrogance to mask uncertainty.  The presence of the boy who, he realised, couldn’t have been any more than a year younger than he was had wrong-footed him.  “Who are you?” he demanded in return.

The boy ignored him, cocking his head at him as if he was a puzzle, an enigma.  “Tell me, Pendragon.  Why do you seek Emrys?”

Arthur blinked.  He hadn’t expected the straight-forwardness.  He’d been raised in the court, surrounded by men and women of power who used the truth sparingly, as decoration to make their lies more palatable, more believable.  And now, now he’d grown,  he lived in the midst of a battlefield, where the truth was carefully doctored to exaggerate victories and give their defeats the best possible spin.  The idea of someone speaking their mind was foreign in Camelot - even servants, raised far from the intrigues of the royal household, knew better than to tell those above them what they really thought.

In the logical corner of his mind, the part that dealt with plans and battles and justified the atrocities he committed whilst the of him recoiled in revulsion (we  _are_ at war…), Arthur knew that to answer truthfully, to admit his motivations to the enemy, would make him a traitor.  And yet…

And yet there was something in the boy’s expression, in the innocence of those wide eyes, that compelled him - no, not compelled; this was no enchantment, this was his own will.  There was just something about him, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, that made him seem… trustworthy.  Something that made Arthur want to answer.

 

“My father,” he answered finally.  “My father told me that Magic’s Blade can end the war, and he tasked me with retrieving it.”

The boy shook his head vigorously, seemingly dissatisfied with the response.  “Why do  _you_ seek Emrys?  Not your father - you.”

Arthur blinked again and swallowed.  The boy took pity, smiling kindly at him.  “Rest, Pendragon.  There is a glade not far from him where the battles and winter will not reach.  Tomorrow evening, I will come to you again, and perhaps then you will know why you seek me.”

“You?”  Arthur gaped, “ _you’re_ Emrys?”

The boy - Emrys - smiled, grabbed his cloak from the tree, and disappeared.  Arthur felt rage unfurl in the pit of his stomach.  Not only was his father hypocritical, hoping to use a sorcerer for his own aims whilst he professed to despise it, but he was hoping to use a boy - a boy younger than Arthur - as a weapon.

It made him sick.

 

*

 

Emrys smiled to himself as he walked, cloak hung over his arm.  It trailed on the floor, his attention far away from hated items of clothing that disturbed the dust and leaves of the forest.  His mind, instead, was focussed on the great deal of magic it would take to keep the glade the prince would be resting as safe as he’d promised.  Frowning, he wondered a moment why he should.  Pendragon had killed his… not his friends.  His allies.  His patients.  And he’d never made such an effort for the kings who had pursued him before.  

But then, Arthur didn’t seem much like the kings who’d pursued him before.  He hadn’t drawn his sword when Emrys had appeared, though his hand had drifted to it.  He was the first to speak of peace rather than victory, which surely counted for something.

And he was certainly the better looking, with the blond hair like spun gold and eyes the colour of the lake and-  And that was totally irrelevant; Emrys had no business thinking about Camelot’s prince like that.  Shaking his head at himself he tried to relax, to clear his mind, letting the quiet of the forest bring him peace, however temporary.

 

_How small you are for such a great destiny._

Emrys blinked and stopped walking, sitting at the base of a tree and closing his eyes to give the Great Dragon easier access to his mind - if he didn’t, the crotchety old beast complained that he was giving him a hard time on purpose.  Kilgharrah had never reached him in his waking hours before, so it was likely rather important.  “Hello, old friend,” he said.

_Hello, Emrys._

“What riddles do you have for me today,” Emrys said wryly.  As wise and all-knowing as the spirit of the Great Dragon was, he had a penchant for speaking in the most annoyingly cryptic manner possible.

_Your instincts are right, young warlock.  You should trust them._

“Just last week you told me I had the brains of a half-crushed leech, and that if I valued my continued existence I should give up hope on my instincts and listen to you, preferably before I got myself and everyone else killed.”

_You were trying to save a man past saving.  He was injured in the midst of battle, surrounded by Camelot’s forces, and you wanted to go out alone and save him._

“I managed it, didn’t I?”

_Barely.  But, Emrys, that is not the issue I have come to debate.  Your destiny is at hand._

Emrys grinned.  Finally!

_Arthur is the Once and Future King who will unite the land of Albion, but he faces threats from friend and foe alike.  Without you, Arthur will never succeed._

 

Emrys opened his eyes with a ragged gasp, the gold tinge to the edge of his vision fading as he stood.  Apparently, he’d been right in thinking Arthur different.  He smiled again (this was surely the most smiling he’d done in weeks) and set off to the camp with a spring in his step.

 

*

 

Morgana, called Le Fay by some of the camp (druids, mostly), sat, unnoticed, and watched Emrys as he reached the border guards.  Her sharp eyes glinted as she spied the spark of hope in his eyes that she had thought extinguished years ago.  He had hope.

That was dangerous.

If Emrys had hope, that meant that he had seen something in Arthur Pendragon to give it to him.  And that meant that, somehow, he’d come under the illusion that Arthur was the king he’d been waiting for.  Morgana wasn’t a fool.  She knew Emrys’ loyalty, and she knew that if he got it into his head that he was meant to make Arthur king he would do so or die.  Arthur _couldn’t_ be king - they hadn’t fought this long and this hard to see Uther’s tyranny ended in the crowning of yet another magic-hating Pendragon.

 

She stood gracefully, smoothing the creases in her black dress.  Her sister would know what to do.  Morgause always had a plan.

 

*

 

Emrys glanced briefly at the entrance of his tent as the fabric rustled, “hello, Mordred.”

_Hello, Emrys._

He smiled at the druid boy.  As much as his silent arrival might be unnerving if it went unnoticed, Emrys admitted to having a soft spot for the camp’s youngest member.  He’d always be willing to play a game or two, to take time off preparing the cures Mordred’s druid clan had taught him to tell stories to send him to sleep.  Of course, he knew that the boy preferred it when Morgana did these things, but she was often with the priestesses so Emrys was (just about) acceptable.

“What can I do for you?”  He frowned, giving him a once over, “you’re not hurt, are you?”  Grazed knees were a near perpetual risk now that Mordred had discovered the joys of climbing trees and pretending to be on watch with the sentries who used magic to sense enemies further afield than the human eye could dream of seeing.  Emrys was now an expert in the strong-smelling salves used for minor cuts.  Mordred shook his head.

_I heard Morgana and Morgause talking.  Morgana said that you believed Arthur Pendragon to be the Once and Future King._

“Did she now,” Emrys murmured.  He wasn’t surprised in the least; Morgana was clever, cleverer than most, and possessed, at times, unnerving insight into Emrys’ thoughts.  He sighed inwardly, wondering idly what the sisters were plotting now.  There was no doubt that they’d act to try and stop Arthur becoming king - perhaps they’d try to change his mind.  Or perhaps they’d ask Nimueh to intervene.  Or-

_Is it true?_

Mordred broke into his thoughts and Emrys turned to look at him.  The boy looked… nervous.  Why was he nervous?  What had he heard?  “I think so,” he said finally.  “He’s… different to the others who have tried to claim me.”

Mordred nodded solemnly, looking down.

“Mordred, I-”

_If you are certain, Emrys, then you and your prince are in mortal danger._

Protective instincts Emrys hadn’t known he possessed pricked up their ears, sending a rush of adrenaline coursing through his blood.  He didn’t know where it had come from, but he had a feeling it wasn’t going to abate any time soon - magic was prickling under his skin, urging to leave, run, find Arthur and protect him, no matter the cost.  To fulfil his destiny.  “What danger?” he asked urgently.  “What are they planning?”

Mordred shook his head.  His loyalty to Morgana exceeded his loyalty to Emrys, it always had and always would.  He walked out silently, having done the best he could, and Emrys watched him go, stomach flopping over nervously.  It took only a moment of dithering to make his decision - he had to get to Arthur first.

 

*

 

“You’re sure our plan will work?”

Morgause smiled reassuringly at Morgana, proud of her diligent questioning.  “Worry not, sister.  If Uther believes Arthur to be in danger then he’ll send his men to his aid immediately, and if Emrys believes the Once and Future King to be in danger he’ll run to his side in an instant.”  She smiled a shark’s smile, all dangerous white teeth and cold, calculating eyes, “after a few days in Uther’s cell, believing that Arthur is the reason he’s there, Emrys will forget any foolish idea he had of the Pendragon boy being the other half of the prophecy, and we will rescue him.”

Morgana smiled, relaxing slightly and sipping blood-red wine from a silver goblet.  She didn’t worry about Uther receiving the message - Nimueh had magicked it into the king’s tent herself, labelling it an anonymous tip detailing the treacherous plans of the dangerous Emrys, as she had no more desire than them to see a Pendragon take the throne again - and, so long as all went to plan, Emrys would be dealt with very soon.

 

*

 

Emrys panted and gasped and stumbled as he ran to Arthur in the glade.  Though his magic was strong, capable of protecting Arthur from most dangers, it was better to be at his side if the priestesses were involved.

He’d never felt relief like it when he came upon Arthur in the glade, not even one golden hair on his head disturbed.

 

Arthur looked over at Emrys as he tripped into the glade.  He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but the boy preempted his question.

“Do you know why you seek me yet, Pendragon?” Emrys asked, sounding as if he was nothing more than curious.  It was only years of reading people that Arthur noticed an edge of fear -  something had scared Magic’s Blade, and he wouldn’t confess to it.  And, Arthur reckoned, anything that could scare him was bad news.  His hand drifted idly to the hilt of his sword as he spoke.

“I seek Emrys to…” he thought a moment.  There were many reasons to seek him, many puzzles that could be solved.  “To ask why the sorcerers haven’t defeated us.  The king who wields Emrys is meant to end the war.”  King Cenred, rather unwisely, had allied with the sorcerers.  It was no secret that he coveted the throne of Camelot, and it was rumoured that Morgause kept him on a short leash through the elegant art of seduction.  Why hadn’t he and Emrys already won?

Emrys smiled at him, “he can’t.  He isn’t the Once and Future King who was prophesied.  Only my king can command my power to end the war and bring peace.”

“Who is?”

He sorcerer shrugged playfully, a knowing glint in his eye - it said  _what fun is it telling you?_ \- and Arthur pulled a face.  He didn’t like being left out of things.

 

A rustle in the trees made both of them jump, staring wide-eyed at their surroundings.  Arthur drew his sword, twirling it effortlessly in one hand, and Emrys stood back to back with him, one hand raised and a spell on his lips.  Arthur could feel the magic rolling off him in rolls; it was warm, and prickled slightly beneath his skin, filling him with confidence he probably wouldn’t have had otherwise.

“Why aren’t you running?” he mumbled out the corner of his mouth as the rustles came closer.

Emrys shrugged.  “I’m going to protect you.”

Arthur laughed, taken by surprise, “we’re  _enemies_.  I have no idea why you’re so eager to die with me.”

“Trust me,” the sorcerer quipped, magic crackling as he smirked, “this is a surprise to me, too.”

The prince grinned.  “Well, Emrys.  Whatever creature, soldier, or sorcerer is out there, I’m glad you’re on my side.”

 

*

 

Sir Leon peered carefully through a gap in the leaves.  It was strange.  Contrary to the king’s words, Prince Arthur didn’t seem to be in much danger.  In fact, he and Magic’s Blade seemed to be taking a defensive stance… _together_.  As if they were allies against the unseen knights.  He shoved the thought from his head - he had his orders.

He signalled to the knights and they charged onto the scene.

 

*

 

“Stop!” Arthur commanded, shoving Emrys behind him, out of range for the rather incredibly sharp swords.  In shock, the knights obeyed.  “What on  _earth_ do you think you’re doing?  Sir Leon?”

“King’s orders, sire.  We were told you’d lead us to Magic’s Blade.”

“What?”  Arthur turned to the boy behind him, whose wide blue eyes were wide and betrayed and  _terrified_.  “I didn’t…” he insisted, not sure why the idea of Emrys being disappointed in him sickened him to his stomach, “I’d never…”

Emrys didn’t answer.  His entire body was rigid, made stiff by the fear whirling around his body.

“You’re hereby placed under arrest on the orders of King Uther of Camelot,” Sir Leon announced, sounding almost guilty, “to be imprisoned and interrogated as a prisoner of war.  Prince Arthur,” he sighed, “please step aside.  We have orders to arrest any who attempt to offer the prisoner aid.”

The prince didn’t move from Emrys’ side until a single tendril of gold shoved him roughly aside.

 

Even going to interrogation, he would not let Arthur get hurt.


	3. Chapter 2

Emrys didn’t often admit to fear.  The druids didn’t like to think of him of him as a man, as human.  He was their saviour, the one who’d been prophesied to help bring peace, Magic’s Blade - he wasn’t meant to be scared.

But he didn’t think they’d begrudge him terror as he was shoved roughly onto his knees and made to look up into the sharp, cold eyes of Uther Pendragon.  Arthur stood behind his father. He looked… horrified. Guilty. Desperate.

Emrys almost thought he was sorry he’d been captured.

 

Uther spoke, capturing his attention immediately.  “You will win this war for us.”

He stayed silent, looking down.  Sickness churned in his stomach, stones poked his knees, and anxiety clouded his mind.  He looked down to hide the terror in his eyes, heaving in a deep breath. When he spoke, he had to restart several times, trying to bring his voice closer to normal - it had jumped several octaves.  “I- I-” he heaved in another breath, “I can’t.”

“What?”  Uther was glowering at him.  He couldn’t see it, with his eyes still focused on the floor, but he could feel it on the back of his neck.  Still, he was used to dealing with angry, powerful people. He’d dealt with Nimueh, hadn’t he?

“You are not my king, Uther Pendragon.”  Emrys managed to drag his eyes upwards and shrug the guards’ hands off his shoulders.  “I won’t serve you. You have wronged so many people - so many of my people - in so many ways.  You're blinded by your hatred of magic.” Arthur was looking at him over Uther’s shoulder, silently begging him to shut up before he got himself killed, but Emrys was on a roll now.  “You have tortured and executed innocent people,” he spat. “You, Uther Pendragon, are a stupid, arrogant old tyrant! A right… A right dollophead!” Arthur shook his head tiredly, and Emrys almost wanted to smile at him.  Then again… he was probably going to die. 

 

Emrys offered the prince a cheeky, not-at-all-guilty grin, a crooked, dimpled affair that said  _ what can you do? _ and made Arthur’s heart clench in his chest.  He couldn’t let him die, that much was clear, and he’d have to act quickly unless he wanted the rage that was slowly causing his father’s face to turn purple to culminate in Emrys’ execution.

“Father,” he said hurriedly, “Emrys isn’t our enemy.  He protected me. He was going to fight with me when we thought the knights were enemies.”

Uther turned to glare at him, “are you bewitched, Arthur?”  

Arthur shook his head quickly.  The last thing he needed was for his father to think Emrys has cast a spell on him.  

“Then you no doubt realise that Emrys was hoping to turn you against us.  Earning your trust to betray you.”

“I don’t think-” 

“Enough!”  Uther’s purple colouring was fading slightly.  Now he was only vivid crimson. “If Magic’s Blade will not fight for us,” he announced coldly, “then he will serve us in other ways.”  He looked to Sir Leon, who seemed rather guiltier than he normally did delivering prisoners. “Take Emrys away. He will be interrogated; he will tell us the sorcerers plans.”

“Sire!” Arthur burst out.  “You can’t!” Uther’s old friend, the Witchfinder, had found employment amongst the king’s ranks as his interrogator, and no one lasted long under his methods.  Emrys was even younger than Arthur - he wouldn’t last a week.

“I said, enough!”  Uther glared at him, “you will be  _ silent _ , Arthur, or you will be confined to your tent until you learn respect.”

The prince scowled, flushing up to his ears at being so soundly reprimanded in front of his knights.  “I won’t be silent,” he said, voice quiet but hard and flinty as stone. “Emrys is a boy, younger than I.   What you are planning is wrong.”

“Arthur!”

“You can’t interrogate him, and I won’t allow you to use him as a weapon.”

 

The knights were staring at him, Arthur knew.  He hoped it was with something at least similar to respect, not incredulity.  Uther was glowering, exhaling in one long gust as if that would calm him slightly.

“Sir Leon,” he said, trying to sound like he had a reign on his temper, “escort the prince to his tent.  He will be guarded till such a time as I judge him to be cured of his… delusions regarding sorcery.”

“Yes, sire,” Leon answered dully, a silent apology in his eyes as he grabbed Arthur and hauled him away.

 

*

 

Emrys watched them go, not quite believing what he’d seen.  The Crown Prince of Camelot, standing up against his father for him.  He gaped after them for a moment longer, before a rough hand shoved his head forwards - he toppled over, nearly knocking his forehead against the rocky floor.  Tensing his body against other blows, he caught sight of his assailant.

A man clad all in black, with wisps of thinning blond hair not quite covering his scalp.  His eyes, as they glared down at Emrys, were a cruel, cold, icy blue, and his paper lips were twisted in a merciless smirk.

Emrys heaved in a shaky breath.  This then was the man he’d heard horror stories of, back in Nimueh’s camp.  This was the man who’d be torturing him for information.

This was Aredian, Witchfinder extraordinaire.

 

A scream ripped through Emry’s frail body, hoarse from the hours of pain.  His ragged breaths echoed in the chamber. Arms throbbing from being tied up and wrists chafed by the rope, he fought to swallow sobs.  He didn’t want to show weakness.

Still, he couldn’t prevent one pearl tear trickling down his pale cheek.

“Tell me, Emrys,” Aredian said, prodding again at his prisoner’s abused back with a glowing-hot rod, “what are Nimueh’s plans?  What does she hope to gain from sending you to Prince Arthur?”

He stayed mute, only whimpering as the salty water from his eyes dripped into a still bleeding wound.

“Tell me!”

Another poke from the rod, another yell, an unstoppable sob, and Emrys couldn’t keep silent.  Not when Aredian looked contemplatively at his other equipment, out of his victim’s sight.

“She didn’t know!” he insisted.  “She had no idea! I- I- I-” He broke off with a choked noise of pain.

“There there,” the Witchfinder said soothingly, “it’s alright.  Let’s take a break, and continue this later.” He gave a slimy smile, “you’ll feel better when you’ve told me.  Get the burden off your chest.”

 

*

 

Nimueh knew the moment Emrys was taken for interrogation.   His pain flashed like white-hot fire through every being of magic, just for a moment, but she knew it for what it was.  She summoned Morgause and Morgana.

“Our plan is coming together,” she smiled.  “The prince won’t lift a finger against his father.  When Emrys loses his faith, he’ll come crawling back to us.”

Her sisters smiled, and none of them saw the young Mordred peering in through the open flap.  He frowned to himself - clearly, his warning had not been enough to protect Emrys from danger.  Only a moment was given up to brooding before he shrugged; Morgana was his friend, not Emrys, and she and the Priestesses knew best, not Emrys.

Smiling slightly, confident in his loyalties, Mordred wandered off again, playing with his magic as he went.

 

*

 

Emrys groaned quietly as he was tossed into a small, heavily guarded cage, with too-tight handcuffs rubbing his abused wrists.  He didn’t know what time it was - time seemed to be a non-existent thing in Aredian’s presence - but the sky was dark and the first stars were just coming out in their shining glory.

If he was younger, still with his mother in Ealdor, he might have made a wish.

 

*

 

Leon woke Arthur at midnight, as instructed.  The knight was near ill with guilt for his part in Emrys’ arrest and Arthur’s grounding, and the prince wasn’t above using that to his advantage.  Not in this case, anyway.

With only the patrol and watch awake, the pair snuck to where they knew Emrys was being kept.  Leon hid behind a tree to keep watch as Arthur approached, armed with ointments, food, and water.

 

“Emrys?”  His voice was little more than a whisper, but it was still enough to alert the dozing sorcerer to his presence - he jumped and shrunk into the corner, blinking blearily until Arthur’s face came into focus.

“What are you doing here?” he asked hoarsely.  He tried for a smile, “why do you seek Emrys?”

Arthur didn’t return it.  “To know why you don’t use your magic to escape.”

The sorcerer looked down, “you’d be the main suspect.  I’ve already driven a wedge between you and your father - I don’t wish to make him hate you.”

Blinking, Arthur motioned to Emrys to turn so he could treat the wounds Aredian had left.  He felt the boy relax slightly as he rubbed the ointment gently over the burns and cuts (as thick as Gaius had told him, he hoped), sighing quietly, but Arthur’s mind was whirring away unpleasantly.  Why would a sorcerer care about his family? Why would a sorcerer care about driving a wedge between him and his father? (Especially when, privately, Arthur knew that his father’s policies and the loss of Morgana had done that already.)

He halted in his treatment, gritting his teeth.  “I’m going to get you out of here, Emrys. I promise.”

Ermys looked at him and smiled softly; Arthur wasn’t sure whether the man believed him or was simply humouring him.  He decided not to worry about it as he held a waterskin to Emrys’ parched lips, warning him quietly not to drink too quickly - “you’ll only make yourself sick.”

 

Arthur wasn’t a fool.  He knew better than to try and rescue Emrys alone - there was no way in hell he could defend them both, especially with the sorcerer so weak.  So, naturally, that meant that he had to find allies.

Luckily for him, he’d built up quite a number of them over the years.

 

Sir Leon nodded gravely as the prince asked him to speak with him,  _ privately _ .  Though he was, as he had been for many years, the king’s Head Knight, it was an open secret that he was as loyal (if not more) to Prince Arthur.  Leon had, after all, been the one to teach the child to wield his sword, to ride his horse into battle, and taught the man to behave with the dignity and honour that befitted a knight and to look interested as he sat in the councils.

“I need your help,” the prince told him quietly as they reached his tent.

“With what, my lord?”

Prince Arthur poked his head out of the tent flap as if he expected someone else to be sneaking around in the earliest hours of the morning, whilst the stars were still the only light in the sky.  He looked back at Leon. “What I’m about to ask of you will go against the vows you made to my father. You are under no obligation to help me. I won’t hold it against you. All I ask is that you refrain from mentioning it to anyone.”

Leon nodded solemnly, slightly confused.

“I’m going to break Emrys out of the prison and take him away from my father and Aredian before they end up killing him.”  The prince looked at him as if trying to predict his response.

“Of course,” Leon replied promptly.  The prince seemed surprised. Leon shrugged at him.  Yes, his vows pitted him against magic-users, but he was just old enough to have a good memory of the time before the war.  He’d only been young - not more than ten, surely - but he’d been caught in the crossfire of some bandits’ arrows. Convinced he was dying… knowing he was dying... he’d stumbled blindly through the forest, getting as close to home as he could before he fainted and passed on to the shades.

Only, he didn't die.

It was the druids.  They possessed a chalice - the Cup of Life they called it - and when they poured water from it down his throat he recovered as if he’d never been injured.  There wasn’t even a scar.

He regaled this tale to Prince Arthur and the man nodded gravely.  “Anyone who’s with us will be here in three days, at midnight,” he announced.  “Make sure you are, too.”

 

*

 

“Fancy doing something illegal?”

Gwaine looked up as the prince walked into the medical tent and raised an interested eyebrow, “I thought your noble blood put you above such things.”  

He’d been close to passing out at the time, but he’d still heard the king berating his son after he and Gwaine had first met.  It wasn’t merely the fact he was associating with an infamous drunkard, Arthur was to understand, but that they’d met by getting into a bar brawl together.  He smirked a little at the memory; his leg still throbbed now and then, phantom memories of the knife he’d taken for the blond (before he knew he was a prince, mind you) keeping him well aware of the reasons he was stuck in Camelot’s camp, languishing in the medical tent.

Still, this was something interesting.  A grounded prince in his tent in the middle of the night, unescorted, and asking him to break the law.  Very interesting indeed.

“Myself and Sir Leon are breaking Emrys out and getting him as far away as possible.  We’ll likely be hunted until either ourselves or my father passes on, and we certainly will be declared traitors.  I obviously can’t ask this of you-”

“But you are anyway.”  Gwaine grinned, rolling his neck.  It creaked with disuse and he was suddenly and violently filled with the urge to get out of this suffocating place and run, preferably towards a bar.  “Alright, Princess,” he drawled, “when are you planning this suicide mission?”

Arthur smiled, looking somewhat relieved, “be at my tent at midnight, three days from now.”  He paused, “if you can, bring Gaius. Emrys will need medical help, and though knights have some training it won’t be enough.”

 

*

 

Lancelot and Guinevere hastily dropped hands as someone quietly walked behind them.  They’d thought that, in the dark, they’d be undisturbed and unjudged, but apparently not.

“Apologies,” came a voice, “but I need to talk to you.”

“Arthur,” Gwen breathed, relief flooding her system.  Lance took her hand again and she rolled her eyes; though the almost-knight knew that she didn’t care for Arthur in that way, that there’d never been anything between them except good friendship born of the hole that Morgana’s absence left, he always got rather possessive when in the prince’s presence.  It seemed, however, that Arthur hadn’t even noticed.

“What I’m about to ask,” the prince said quietly, “will make you traitors to the crown if you agree.  I’ve no right to ask you, and if you say no I won’t hold it against you.”

“What is it?” Lance asked, slightly nervous.  He’d never known Arthur to go against the king - at least publicly - until Emrys had appeared.  He had a feeling he knew what was going to be asked.

“There is a group of us planning to escape with the sorcerer Emrys.”  Arthur stared unrepentantly back at wide eyes. “Of course, my father would never forgive such a thing, but I could not forgive myself if I left an innocent man to die.”

Gwen looked at Lancelot, asking the question with a wordless quirk of her mouth.  He nodded. “We’re with you,” she smiled, “and if you need more men, I’ll try and bring Elyan.”

Arthur nodded and told them the meeting time - they’d need all the help they could get.

 

*

 

Emrys wasn’t entirely sure how long it had been at this point.  Long enough that his head spun with hunger and thirst if he tried to sit up too quickly.  Long enough that his lips were cracked and bled if he tried to force his mouth to open so he could garble out attempts at words with his hoarse voice.  Long enough that when Aredian came to him, stalking over with fury in his dark eyes, it was almost a welcome break from the monotony.

Almost.

 

He’d have preferred monotony when Aredian got started.  His pole was ready, burning till it glowed almost white and singed the pale skin of Emrys’ back when he didn’t have a satisfactory answer to questions.  His knives were wickedly sharp, glinting in the low, flickering light of the torches, and left shallow gashes along Emrys’ ribs when he cried out. His rope burned Emrys’ wrists as he hung from the top of the cage, feet not quite touching the floor.

Emrys’ abused body cried out for respite, just enough time for him to gather his magic to try and bully some strength back into himself.  His breaths came faster and faster, bringing less and less oxygen into his lungs. He let out a sob and Aredian looked at him with a mockingly kindly smile.

“Come on, Emrys,” he said quietly, halting in his assault.  “All you have to do is tell me what Nimueh is planning. Tell me why you were sent to Prince Arthur, and all this pain will stop.”

Emrys looked at him with unfocused eyes and with blood trickling down his side.  His pale body, thin enough to see the bones of the spine and ribs, was littered with thin, deep cuts, and caked in his own drying blood.  The air smelt coppery and Emrys retched - he barely had time to weakly turn his head away from himself before he was coughing up burning bile.  He let out another sob. “I don’t know anything,” he said hoarsely, tears streaming down his cheeks. “If I knew something important, she’d have killed me by now.”

He wasn’t lying.  Nimueh was ruthless and she had people everywhere.  Emrys knew too many prisoners of war who’d been captured by Uther and eliminated within the hour, just in case they were… convinced to give up information.

He’d never been so grateful for their lack of trust in him in his whole life.

 

Aredian’s efforts went on for what seemed like hours later - clearly he couldn’t believe that Magic’s Blade would be distrusted by those who claimed he would bring about the end of the war - before Emrys, blessedly, fainted dead away.

 

*

 

“Well, young warlock.  You certainly have got yourself into a spot of trouble,” Kilgharrah boomed, his voice filling every crevice of Emry’s mind.

Emrys grunted in response, still curled into a tight ball with his eyes tightly closed.

“Do you have a plan to get out of this?”

“No,” he admitted, starting to unfurl as the fact he was in a dream reminded him that he wouldn’t feel any pain unless he desired it - he didn’t.  “I don’t suppose it’d be of any use to ask you, would it?”

Kilgharrah agreed that it wouldn’t and Emrys sighed.  The Great Dragon had retired from interfering in the physical world immediately after his death, and that, unfortunately, included escape plans.  (Nowadays, he interfered only in the prophetic and cryptic parts of Emrys’ life, and he constantly reminded him that the moment Emrys had fulfilled his destiny, he’d be away to join his family in the shades; he’d only chuckled when the young warlock suggested that his morbid plans were perhaps a reason for him not to hurry in fulfilling the prophecy he wanted nothing to do with before hurrying him on his way.)

“Perhaps the young Pendragon will come to your aid.”

“Arthur?”  Emrys scoffed.

“He said he would.  He gave his word.”

“Yeah, but it would completely destroy his relationship with his father.  Why would he?” His voice dropped in volume, low enough that anyone but Kilgharrah would have missed it completely, “it’d make his life a lot easier if he’d hate me.”

“A half cannot truly hate what makes it whole.”

“Good to know,” Emrys said with a yawn.

“Rest, young warlock,” Kilgharrah sighed.  “Who knows when you will again.”

Emrys would have asked what he meant, but Kilgharrah’s presence left his mind and left him alone.

 

*

 

“Oh, my poor, brave boy,” came a sigh from the back of his mind.

“Mother?”  Emrys looked down, “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to break my promise.”

_ Promise me, Merlin, that you’ll stay out of trouble.  Don’t let anyone know about your magic. Keep yourself safe, love.  I know you’re only a little boy, but promise me. I need you safe. _

_ I promise, Mama. _

“But,” he said, trying to inject some humour into his voice and make her smile (because even though she was just a memory, an echo formed from what he could recall of his childhood, she was still his mother), “what do you expect?  I have a cryptic, interfering, prophesying, dragon in my head. That’s a recipe for trouble.”

“What have they done to you, Merlin?”

“Emrys,” he corrected automatically.

“Merlin,” she sighed sadly.  “That’s what I named my boy.”

He closed his eyes and swallowed, tears prickling behind his eyes, “I’m not your boy, not anymore.  That’s what they’ve done to me.”

 

*

 

Three days passed sluggishly.  Arthur was snappish, even to Leon, and refused to apologise to his father, no matter what messages and threats were sent to his tent.  He couldn’t force himself to relax; he slept poorly and kept waking before sunrise. Even worse, he couldn’t risk another trip to see Emrys.  He could only pray that he was ok.

Finally, long after Arthur’s nails were picked and bitten down to the quick, the night arrived.  He watched anxiously as the candle burned down to the midnight mark and waited for people to arrive.  Leon was already with him, of course, masquerading as a guard loyal to Uther and watching Arthur pace the length of his tent, over and over and over again, before sitting, tugging agitatedly at a piece of blond hair, and standing again.  

“Do you think they’ll come, Leon?” the prince asked for at least the fifth time that night.

“They said they would, sire,” he answered, for at least the twentieth time in those three days.

Arthur shook his head, starting to pace again.  His hand kept drifting to his sword - he itched to get started, to get Emrys out of that damned cage.  “I overstepped my bounds as prince. I’ve put all of them in danger. I wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t come.”

“But we did, Arthur,” came a gentle voice - Guinevere’s voice - from outside the tent, slightly amused but mostly concerned (for Arthur or Emrys?  Or both?) as she lead the others inside.

“What’s the plan,” asked Lancelot, straight to the point as ever.  By his side stood Percival, strong and silent as always, and Arthur’s heart leapt.  He’d forgotten to ask Percival, which was ridiculous; he had arms as large and tough as tree trunks, and a protective streak just as wide.  Thank god Lancelot had thought to ask him - of course he had, Percival had been with him every step of the journey, and the battle with the Gryphon.

 

Arthur paused, hesitated, started to pace again and was conscious of his little renegade group’s eyes all on him.  He raked a hand through his hair as if taming it would tame his thoughts, too.

“Leon, Percival, and Lancelot, you’ll come with me to get Emrys,” he decided, knowing he’d need a big enough group to protect Emrys, but small enough to not attract attention.  Four was enough. “The rest of you, go to the first clearing you find - mark the trees so we can follow - and set up a camp. Gaius,” he smiled - thank god they had Gaius, “try and prepare… something to heal Emrys, if you can.  Guinevere, you’ll help him?”

“Of course.”

He smiled wanly before turning serious.  “Elyan, you guard Guinevere, and Gwaine, Gaius.  Don’t let them out of your sight. From this moment, both my father’s men  _ and  _ Nimueh’s sorcerers are out to get us.”  The two guards nodded solemnly and Arthur suddenly grinned fiercely, filled to the brim with the reckless adrenaline that only accompanied going into battle.  With a single nod, he lead the way to  his the warlock.

 

*

 

“Emrys?”

The warlock woke with a jolt, hitting the bars as he flailed from the shock before his eyes locked onto a relieved looking face, “Arthur!”

He was quickly hushed and he blushed, before looking behind the prince, over his shoulder.  “What are you doing here? And who are they?” He tried to sit up as he spoke, “and-” he broke off into a groan, as some cut in his back throbbed.  Arthur paled almost as much as Emrys was sure he had himself, almost like a ghost in the light of the moon.

“I’m fine,” he said faintly.  “I’m just…” He blinked.  “Are there two of you?”

Arthur frowned nervously, “no.”

“Oh,” Emrys said vaguely.  And then he fainted.

 

*

 

“Emrys?  Emrys!” Arthur shook the boy’s shoulder gently, then roughly.  And then he cursed viciously and turned to the other knights. “I’m going to have to carry him.”

They nodded, fully aware that what Arthur was really telling them was that he wouldn’t be able to defend himself or Emrys - they’d have to do it for him.  They unsheathed their swords as he unclasped his cape, wrapped the unconscious man in it as if he was a baby in swaddling, and then stooped down to pick him up as carefully as possible, making sure not to jolt him.

“Come on then,” Arthur whispered, looking around them anxiously.  “We’ve got to get him as far away as possible before Aredian comes for him.”

They nodded grimly and stood on either side of him as they walked slowly - too nervous to run and risk tripping or being heard - towards the mouth of the forest.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This fic will be updated sporadically, I'm afraid, as I'm working on it alongside my Spy!AU. It's just something I've been writing when I get blocked on that, but I rather like it so I thought I'd post it.  
> If you spot any errors, or later in the story you see something that you think I've neglected to tag/needs a different rating, please let me know :)


End file.
